Poko Sala ‘Love’?
by Band8PGeek
Summary: Nobody knows everything, much less a caveman, even if he can speak the language. Here we follow but a minute of “taila foo” Squog’s internal struggle to come to terms with what “love” is.


_**Poko Sala 'Love'?  
**__Nobody knows everything, much less a caveman, even if he **can** speak the language. Here we follow but a minute of "taila foo" Squog's internal struggle to come to terms with what "love" is. One-shot; short drabble, to be exact. _

I **was** going to give Chapter 2 of Not Chop Slap a shot, until this mind-numbing little question came to mind:  
_Is it me, or has SpongeBob Goes Prehistoric been highly underrated as a potential fic base?  
_No, it's true. It only aired a year ago, and nobody to date has even considered a one-shot involving SpongeGar, Patar and/or Squog. They've got just as much potential as our present-day neighbours, yet they haven't been given a second thought…  
Except by me.  
So, here's something for you to occupy your minds with over the weekend; a 552-word Squog-related one-shot. It may not get the best reception, and it may look inferior compared to previous popular prologues of mine (coughMissingYoucough), but if it's crap, it's crap. And you're always as good as your last performance, as Sharon Osbourne says.  
Disclaimer: I don't own SpongeBob, nor Squog. (They both begin with S… ever notice that?)

* * *

Squog, though maybe it didn't show, knew a lot of stuff. For a caveman living before comedy.  
For example, he knew how to track down the monster Patar called zapapow, and get its sticky goo without getting burnt. He knew where to find the best material for making a stone sculpture (of himself, naturally). He knew how to stalk and kill the money crabs; he knew what a sutaka jakazar was; he knew when SpongeGar needed to clean up his tabonga do; best and most useful of all, he knew how to tame the unpredictable and ferocious fweefwee.  
But nobody knows everything, much less a caveman, even if he **can** speak the language. And the question playing on Squog's mind the most was, "poko sala 'love'"?  
Which might be translated into today's language as, "what is this 'love' thing"?

Love. As common in prehistory as it is in today's world, and tomorrow's, and any other day's. Having first sprung to life when two sub-species chanced to look each other in the eyes for the first time; it was considered a coveted prize to have earned whilst on the hunt, like the head of a wild barbop, or the tentacle of a zapapow. Every caveman this side of the ocean had longed to get their hands on it for as long as they could remember.  
Squog was no exception.  
Now, if only he knew what it **was**.

The trouble was; Squog, though maybe it didn't show, knew a lot of other stuff. Stuff optional in a civilisation that now lives off the microchip and the cyberspace, but vital 100 billion years before even the book came to mind. As such, in the eyes of others (and himself), he was a philosopher; a "taila foo"; a _god_. Prehistoric sea creatures came from the north, south, east, weast, to find out the secrets of survival from the mind of the deep-sea calamari: how to ignite the fweefwee, the habitat of a sutaka jakazar etc etc.  
But nobody, as yet, had asked him (in that irritating tone of voice that drove him up the wall), "poko sala 'love'?"  
And when they did, who knows what could happen if he didn't **know**?

Mind, he took guesses as to what it was. What else could he do? But each guess, though at first seeming deep yet logical, led him to dead ends and circles every time. Every new theory was counteracted by an old one, and he never **got** anywhere.  
Was love the pain one felt when stung by a zapapow?  
No; one wouldn't chase and treasure what could hurt you.  
Was it the tingle on the tongue caused by eating a handful of popping beans?  
No; you get that all the time. Love has to be very rare.  
Was it the winds that rattled at the windows? No.  
Was it the shocks of slipping up in Gary's tabonga do? No.  
Was it the notes that came from "dumbar Patar" when being tripped up?  
No, no, no, no, no.

No matter how hard he looked, where he went, Squog couldn't – and still can't – describe or find out what exactly love was.

But – and this is a big but.  
But he had a hunch it had _something_ to do with the feeling he got after fucking SpongeGar every night.

* * *

No apology for this fic, nor its shortness. It said what it needed to say; I can't go any deeper than that.  
Band8PGeek. 


End file.
